Turn To Happiness
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Oneshot, post-TFP. Mycroft plays the part of Marley to Sherlock's Scrooge by way of telling him not to let his best chance of redemption and happiness pass him by before it's too late. And just maybe, his actions lead to him Mycroft getting more than Marley did in the end.


_**Five months after the events at Sherrinford…**_

On the afternoon of Christmas Day, a familiar scene was depicted at the Holmes cottage. The youngest son was standing in the backyard, holding a cigarette in his fingers. Only this time, it wasn't lit. He was looking at it, as if debating with himself whether or not to spark up.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Sherlock."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock made no move to turn towards his older brother as the taller man came up to him and stood at his side. "I don't need a lecture, Mycroft."

"I don't mean to give you one," said Mycroft mildly. "I only mean that doing so now will not be appreciated by Molly Hooper later."

The mention of that name had an immediate effect on Sherlock: his body went rigid, and the cigarette dropped from his stiff fingers as a result. He blinked forcefully, and then said through gritted teeth, "Low blow, brother mine."

Mycroft sighed, and turned his head to look at his brother. "It wasn't meant as a blow, but as a piece of advice. Go to her."

No immediate response. A full minute must have passed, Mycroft waiting patiently all the while, until Sherlock murmured, "I wouldn't be welcome."

"You don't know that."

"Her actions five months ago made that perfectly clear." Sherlock was, of course, eluding to what had happened following the events of Sherrinford: Molly had resigned her position at Bart's, accepted a new post at the medical school in Oxford, and moved there. Then, he hung his head, and said in a voice that was barely audible: "And so did mine."

"I presume you mean your lack of action?" said Mycroft, though not in a sharp tone. "Leaving myself and Dr. Watson to explain everything that happened? Not going anywhere near her since, even to say goodbye?"

Sherlock made to turn on his heel and walk away, but Mycroft took hold of his arm before he could move away. His younger brother turned to face him with a look that clearly said, ' _Let go of me or you will regret it._ '

But Mycroft would not be deterred. "I understand why, Sherlock. You didn't want to hurt her any more than you already have. You thought that she would be better off without you in her life. Perhaps she is, but perhaps she isn't. You put up a strong front for everybody, but can you really deny how much you miss her? How much you need her still?"

The fierce expression on Sherlock's face melted into a pained one, even as he roughly pulled his arm away from Mycroft's grip. "I will always need her, Mycroft, but that is _my_ burden to bear. I've put her through enough, and she deserves to be happy."

"But she's _not_ happy, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked again, and devastated surprise mixed with his pained expression. "She's…"

Mycroft sighed again, and spoke in the gentlest tone of voice that Sherlock had ever heard. "Dr. Watson spoke to me yesterday evening; he and his daughter had just returned home after visiting her. He is worried about her. Though she seems content with her new job, she is quite alone and seems to miss being close to the people she loves."

Sherlock had no response to that other than to gulp.

Sighing once more, Mycroft faced his brother head-on, conveying the weight of what he was about to say. "Sherlock, enough is enough. Follow this problem to its obvious solution: neither of you are happy, but you would find happiness in each other. Even if she turns you away, at least you will have tried and given the both of you some closure. And if, as I suspect, she lets you in…then embrace the happiness that you deserve. Go, brother mine. I'll make your excuses to Mummy and Father. They will understand."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, not even trying to hide his shocked expression. "…Why?"

Now it was Mycroft's expression that became pained. "You know why, Sherlock. My life is the living proof that keeping secrets and distance from those you love is never the right thing to do. As Mummy said…you were always the smart one. Now go prove it, and wish Molly a Happy Christmas from the rest of us."

To Sherlock's credit, it took him less than a minute to obey the request of his older (and wiser than he had once been) brother.

* * *

 _ **Four Years Later…**_

It was the mildest Christmas that the area had seen in quite a few years. Mycroft didn't even need to wear his suit jacket as he stood in the backyard outside. He was looking thoughtfully out at the fields beyond. He'd wisely opted not to sneak a cigarette outside – he'd never had a taste for them anyway.

"Uncky! Uncky!"

A grin spread across Mycroft's face before he turned around to face the little voice calling to him, for that's what was indeed happening. Sure enough, Mycroft turned to see his niece and goddaughter, Alethea Johanna, toddling towards him with a four-toothed grin on her cherubic face. Her dark curls were in two little pigtails above her ears with cranberry-red bows that perfectly matched her holiday dress.

When the little one was within reach, Mycroft stooped down and scooped her up into his arms. "Are you having a lovely day, my dear?" murmured Mycroft.

"Eeeeeyah!" was Alethea's affirmative answer. Mycroft laughed and kissed her cheek.

His laughter was followed by the sound of his little brother's laughter; he had come outside with Alethea. He stopped beside the two of them, looking the true picture of the happy man that he had become.

"She always smiles when she sees me," mused Mycroft.

"Well, you have a very amusing face, Uncky," replied Sherlock with a smirk.

Mycroft side-eyed his brother, but without any real annoyance. "Excuse me, little brother, only one person has the honor of calling me that. Isn't that right, Miss Alethea?"

Mycroft gave the sixteen-month-old's tummy a tickle as he asked her this, and she let out a lovely peel of giggles that were prettier than any jingle bells that rang that day. When she calmed down, Alethea rested her head on her uncle's chest, and her little arms wrapped around his neck for a good cuddle.

His eyes quite a bit brighter than they had been a moment ago, Mycroft asked Sherlock in a rather hoarse voice, "Did I ever thank you for actually listening to me four Christmases ago?"

Sherlock gave what could only be a small, serious but sincere smile as he rubbed his daughter's back. "Not as much as I thanked you."

The brothers held each other's gazes for as long as they were able (about three seconds) before the effort became too great, and they happily returned their focus to the little one cuddling her uncky and smiling at her daddy.

"Boys and girl!" called a familiar, female voice from the back doorway. All three turned their heads to look at Molly Holmes, her three-month-pregnant belly not yet visible beneath her cream-colored jumper. "The Christmas pudding is ready!"

The boys' faces lighted with smiles to match her own, and her daughter lifted her head from her uncle's shoulder and reached out towards the one she loved most of all. "Mama! Mama!"

Smiling like the sun, Molly met them halfway across the yard, and gladly accepted her daughter from her brother-in-law. Both brothers watched mother and daughter walk inside as they cuddled each other. Before they followed, they exchanged a brief look that conveyed all of the emotions that they would always be too proud and stubborn to express in words (to each other, anyway).

Then they went inside; Sherlock first, because he edged his way ahead, and Mycroft second, rolling his eyes yet smiling in response.

Ah, well. Brothers will be brothers.


End file.
